Oh, My Days!

  Mrs Poo is the last to leave the breakfast table and not because some of her feathers had welded themselves to the table with maple syrup. She had wanted the others to be caught up with the recording of the Christmas Speech so she could head off in peace and quiet to find her great-great-great grandhen, the Duchess Yekaterina. Soon, though, she is at the door of the Arts and Crafts Room, and from within she can hear noises which sound like a steam train coming into a siding. She gives a tentative knock on the door. ‘Who is zis?’ comes the familiar voice of the Duchess Yekaterina. ‘It’s me – your great-great-great grand henchick, Olga Maria Svetlana Osterick de Polovitska,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Zen enter vizin, and wonder at ze miracle before you!’ comes the reply. (N.B The Lady Author knows that the other hens are called Laetitia, Betty and Gloria In Excelsis Deo, but do you think she can remember the first name of Mrs Poo? The original and real Mrs Poo, on whom the fictional c...

  After a night of fitful sleep, where Mrs Miggins’ dreams were haunted by visions of ghostly postmen and King Charles chasing after her wielding an axe and a box of sage and onion stuffing, she is woken by what sounds like distant thunder. It is barely light outside, and when she peers through the curtains, she sees the gates to Buckingham Palace have been opened and a large BBC van is trundling through the parade ground. ‘They’re HERE!’ shouts Kenneth the Phantomime, bursting into Miggins’ boudoir and twirling a pirouette in his silk dressing gown and leather slipperettes with sheepskin trim. ‘Today is the first day of my new and highly successful glittering show-biz career!’ Mrs Miggins slumps back onto her pillow. All her life she has been in charge of everything because it makes her feel safe and negates the element of surprise, because surprise always freaks her out. And, as her old mother hen used to say, ‘If you want a job doing properly, better put a Miggins at the hel...

  It is late in the evening of what has turned out to be a very long and trying day. The hens congregate for supper and a progress debrief. ‘Well, says Mrs Miggins, ‘the drawing room is all set up for the arrival of the film crew and is looking very Christmassy yet also very tasteful – thank you, Mrs Pumphrey,’ and she inserts a big green tick into her spreadsheet. Job done!  Mrs Pumphrey executes a curtsey from her chair which is no mean feat for a hen wearing enormous bloomers. ‘How’s the Christmas card writing going?’ says Mrs Miggins, turning to Mrs Poo, as this has been a niggly worry in the back of her mind all day, especially when she went to find Mrs Poo earlier in the day and couldn’t track down her hereabouts or whereabouts at all. Mrs Poo toys with her Croque Monsieur á la Buckingham Palace . ‘Erm…’ she begins. ‘Erm?’ shrieks Mrs Miggins. ’What do you mean, ‘erm’? The van is arriving tomorrow morning expecting to collect eight hundred and fifty signed and ...

  Mrs Poo has found a very useful room. It is called ‘The Arts and Crafts Room’ and is not, as one might expect in a Royal residence, an homage to William Morris, Edward Burne-Jones, Ford Madox Brown et al, and their kick-back against the mass-produced manufacture of goods following the Industrial Revolution, in favour of a return to style, craftsmanship and aesthetic taste #minihistorylesson. No, this is an actual room for the actual arting and crafting of which, of course, William Morris would thoroughly approve. Its walls are lined with shelves and cupboards which are filled with all sorts of arty-crafty malarkey – decorative papers, paints, clay, pencils, collage materials, glue, double sided sticky tape, beads, fabrics, wool – you name it, it’ll be there. Apart from glitter, on account of it being non-eco-friendly, and King Charles being a long-time Champion of Mother Nature – hurrah! It is an art and craft room that puts Mrs Miggins’ new art studio at the Manor to shame. ...

  There are seven hundred and seventy-five rooms in Buckingham Palace. I know, right?! Spring cleaning must be a nightmare. Any cleaning must be a nightmare. Anyway, Mrs Poo is nothing but resolute, and off she goes in search of the room she needs in order to implement her Christmas Cards For Everyone plan. Up great flights of stairs she climbs, along lengthy corridors she marches, turning right, then left, then left again, and up another flight of stairs. It is a good job she is intent on her mission because she is unaware that her movements are being followed. Is that a mysterious figure in the shadows? A mysterious figure that knows the walls and corridors of Buckingham Palace better than most? Well, of course it’s a mysterious shadowy figure because the Lady Author wouldn’t mention it otherwise, would she? Shadowy foreshadowing, that’s what this is. Keep up, please.   At last, Mrs Poo finds the room she seeks. At the end of a small corridor stands a door upon which is a ...

  After the excitement of the previous day’s journey and arrival at the Palace, the hens and Kenneth are having breakfast in the semi-formal breakfast salon of Buckingham Palace on the 2 nd day of December. ‘Did everyone settle into their rooms alright?’ says Mrs Slocombe, who will forever live in ‘keeping the guests happy’ mode. ‘Oh, yes!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. This experience is like a dream come true for her. ‘I especially like that we have our own personal butler. Mine is called Lawrence and he has a very pert manner.’ ‘Mine is called Eduardo and he has a very pert bot…’ begins Mrs Slocombe, giggling. ‘None of that, Betty Slocombe!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘The inappropriate objectification of our fellow human being, male or female or anywhere else on the gender spectrum, is no longer acceptable in modern-day society.’ ‘But we are hens,’ Mrs Slocombe protests. ‘Since when have we ever obeyed human rules?’ ‘When have we ever obeyed hen rules, come to that?’ says Mrs Pumphrey...

  It is 1 st December… (N.B The Lady Author KNOWS it is 5 th December, in real time, but in fiction story time it is only 1 st December. You’ll have to bear with the vagaries of the space time continuum this year – goodness knows the Lady Author has been confused enough in the writing of this year’s story without the dear Reader(s) getting all picky about details regarding calendar anomalies. One day might not equal one actual day, okay? It might equal three days or it might equal a few hours. Maths is weird like that. Just go with the flow, if you’d be so kind. Thank you.) …and every sane person knows that Christmas is not allowed to begin to even sniff at Winter’s door until 1 st December, and even then, there are some folks who think even that is too soon, the Lady Author being one of them. Anyway, at 7 a.m, when the sun is still sensibly asleep beneath the horizon, a couple of large Range Rovers arrive at Much Malarkey Manor to commence Operation O.R.C (Organising Royal...

  ‘It’s me! Greetings from your favourite star of the show!’ ‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Miggins, as Kenneth the Phantomime, for yes, of course, it is HIM, flounces into the dining room, cape swirling and hat set at the jauntiest of jaunty angles. ‘Bonsoir, mes enfants! Je suis arrive!’ Kenneth continues, channelling his inner Cher and making gracious bows at everyone. And then – because just occasionally he isn’t wholly wrapped up in his own ego - he notices the two strangers in the room. ‘Well, hello!’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise I was going to find myself in the midst of a regal look-a-likey party.’ ‘You’re not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Your Majesties, may I present to you Kenneth the Phantomime, who likes to think he is the star of every show. Kenneth, this is His Majesty King Charles and Her Majesty Queen Camilla…’ Kenneth stares intently at Charles and Camilla. ‘They’re very good,’ he says to Mrs Miggins. ‘I mean, I know an agency in London that would take them onto their books, ...

  King Charles and Queen Camilla accept an invitation to stay for dinner at the Manor. There is a lot to discuss now that Mrs Poo has agreed it would be churlish not to accept the great honour that has been extended to them to be custodians of the Royal Christmas. Indeed, she agrees, it would be an honour to her distant relative who worked so hard at Buckingham Palace during the war efforts. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ says Mrs Miggins, as she and Mrs Poo set about polishing the best silver cutlery at the request of Mrs Slocombe who is now 100% certain that here is her golden opportunity to receive some sort of honour for her cooking. Mrs Poo sniffs. ‘There is no excuse for poor manners,’ she says. ‘And who knows – I might be able to bring down the Establishment from within.’ ‘That’s traitor talk,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Don’t even THINK about it. The Palace and Sandringham House will probably be bugged up to the eaves. You don’t want the secret services swooping in and carting y...

 ‘I’ll come straight out with it,’ says His Maj, because straight-talking is always the best way ahead. ‘Camilla and I are going away on holiday for the Christmas season.’ ‘Tomorrow, in fact,’ says Camilla. ‘I say, these madeleines are jolly nice. You must let me have the recipe…’ ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ says Charles, attempting to regain mastery of the conversation, although Mrs Miggins suspects that this is a rare thing in his marriage. Camilla definitely looks like she is in charge of the biggest and best Royal trousers. ‘And we need some reliable sorts to manage the Royal Christmas for us.’ ‘What about your son and his wife?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘More tea, Your Majesty?’ ‘Oh, I say, thanks very much,’ says Charles, handing over his cup. ‘Well, that depends on the son and wife combo of which you speak. The heir and his missus have quite enough on their plate this year without managing Christmas, too.’ ‘And the spare pair are quite unsuitable,’ says Camilla, a look of soft stee...

  It is late November. All is quiet at Much Malarkey Manor. Missus’ Miggins, Pumphrey, Slocombe and Poo are VERY much looking forward to a calm and restful Christmas this year. Fat chance of THAT happening, says the Lady Author… ‘King Charles is at the front door,’ announces Mrs Poo, marching into the room where Mrs Miggins is currently ensconced. ‘He says would we mind awfully if he had a quick word, thanks very much?’ ‘King Charles?’ says Mrs Miggins, looking up from her work. She is sitting in her new craft studio, which was added to the footprint of Much Malarkey Manor during its rebuilding in 2023, after the devastating fire that razed the old Manor to the ground just before Christmas 2022. She is trying not to lose her temper with a new machine which punches out attractive shapes from cardboard for attaching to greetings cards. She has already, somehow, managed to punch the shape of a jolly robin out of her best smock top. Practical jokes á la Mrs Poo, then, are the las...